Читать книгу Thicker Than Water - Lindy Cameron - Страница 6

As she did a bit of care less leaning against a large tree of a kind she couldn't identify, Kit pondered the only use she could think of for being a smoker: it gave good cover. Being exiled to the great outdoors to inhale fresh air with one's ciggie, while the non-smokers inside were breathing the ever-mutating germs recycling through air-con systems that only operated at minimum efficiency now they didn't have any smoke to expel, meant that anyone with a cigarette in their hand had a valid reason for standing around pretending not to stare at people.

Being a non-smoker, however, meant that Kit had to appear nonchalantly disinterested without a handy prop; no small task when Journo McThing kept glancing at her, possibly tossing up whether it was safe to approach yet or not.

Make a note, O'Malley, she thought. Buy a packet of smokes so you can intentionally loiter anywhere with no apparent intent. She also noted that the side-show crowds outside Angie's had thinned a little. Only half of Rabbit's band of curt-remarksters were still there firing jibes at the fewer-in-number but still chanting HeteroGodsters, and the two remaining uniform cops were trying to ignore the reduced jackal-pack of reporters. Cathy had apparently made good her escape, and the DQs had gone wherever camp divas go in the noon-day sun.

Kit turned her attention to their interloper, the possible spy, the dubious-dyke. McThing was full-figured but not overweight, about five-five tall, naturally red-headed if the fair skin and freckles were any clue, and dressed in black jeans, boots, white shirt and green jacket.

Kit didn't think she'd fessed-up, within Carrie's earshot yesterday, to being a PI but felt sure - given the circumstances - that her profession would've been on Rabbit MacArthur's customary lowdown on all things in the community. Rabbit was a formidable presence: tall, large-breasted, trunk-thighed and loud. She was also a treasure - once you got beyond the somewhat scary spiked hair and demonic tattoos crawling from the sleeves of the tight T-shirts she wore under her trademark black overalls. She had a heart of gold and a mission to make everyone feel welcome; so there was no doubt the questionable queer knew everything there was to know about everyone she'd seen in these parts in the last two days.

A journo worth her salt, Del had said of McThing not revealing her sources. Well ditto for a journo marching up to a PI and demanding to know what the PI knew about everything. So why hadn't she? Why was she still seemingly searching for whatever it was she needed to gird those young loins? Oh. It dawned on Kit that the PI may have frightened the reporter.

Yeah sure, O'Malley. You're not that scary. Just because she - well, everyone actually - heard you berating the deluded duo offering the frisbee-ride to redemption, doesn't mean a thing.

On the other hand, Kit acknowledged, Ms McDermid's attention was ping-ponging between her and the couple who'd relocated with their dodgy sign to the other side of the lawn after Kit had asked them who the fallen were and what would they know if they got up.

"The women who gather together in this place have fallen from grace," Mr Dogmatist had informed her. "Unless they repent their ways, the lord will forever look on them as the abominations of his gift of life."

"Why?" Kit had asked.

"Without the guiding hand of a mortal man, made in god's own image, these women are forever damned and excluded from his light," Mrs Dogmat elaborated.

"The light of man or the light of god?" Kit had queried.

"The light of god through man," Mr Doggydoo proclaimed.

"Really?" Kit frowned. "I don't know about this spooky male light business, but I have been in the dark of true evil, pure and bloody, and I can tell you it was totally man made."

"Where there's dark there's light," god's-image insisted.

"I doubt that's scientifically true but if you want to believe it, go right ahead. I'll let you in on a secret, though: there are more goddesses in that place," Kit pointed at the Terpsichore, "than there are genuine reps of any even half-way-decent god out here on this lawn."

Mr Doodoo recoiled. "This is a house of sin; a faithless den of sex, debauchery, harlotry."

"Harlotry?" Kit snorted. "Listen mate, it can only be your secret stash of porno magazines that would generate that kind of wishful thinking."

"This is indeed a den," Mrs Doo had wailed, as if 'den' was the really important word. She crooked an accusing finger before continuing, "It's frequented by fornicating lesbians."

Ah, den goes with fornicating; that makes it a noun to be reckoned with, Kit thought, amazed at how creatures so chockers with bile could look so much like normal humans.

How come the church, any church, never burned twisted nutters like these at the stake?

Mr was still at it: "Nakedness and licentiousness, sex and..."

"Blimey!" Kit had exclaimed, "you god-fearing breeders are amazing. All you ever think about is sex. Believe me, very little naked fornicating goes on in that piano bar.

"And where the hell are your priorities anyway, you lunatics? The married man whose dead body was left in there was a known philanderer, a drug dealer and a murderer, yet you two are out here protesting against us. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is and how petty you are? That's actually a rhetorical question. Please don't answer, because I really don't care to be assaulted by anything else that might be festering in your sad little minds."

Mr and Mrs had endeavoured to make another sad point but Kit had crossed her wrists in front of her face and backed away, growling: "No, aagh; get away strange people."

Returning to the here and now, Kit realised that McThing's face was responding questioningly to the stare that she was unconsciously levelling in the reporter's direction. Ooh, we are getting bold, she thought, offering a tiny affirmative raise of her chin.

Carrie's standing-start to racing-walk response was immediate; as was Kit's negative finger-pointing motion aimed at dissuading the tag-along photographer.

"Kit O'Malley, right? We met briefly yesterday," McThing said, still on the approach but on her own now. "I'm Carrie McDermid."

"Carrie," Kit nodded, shaking the offered hand. "You weren't a journalist yesterday."

She had the gall to look puzzled then the grace to look apologetic. "I was, I just didn't tell the police that."

"Or me, or Angie."

"You didn't ask," Carrie shrugged. "And, likewise, you didn't tell me you were a private detective, Ms O'Malley."

"Everyone knows that about me though," Kit said, playing along.

"Everyone who knows you, you mean."

"Yep," Kit nodded. "And now that you do, drop the Ms. It's just O'Malley." Strange, she noted, that habit's having quite a revival.

"So, were you here undercover yesterday?" Kit asked.

"No, I was here for lunch."

"What about Wednesday night?"

"Wednesday? Oh. Um, I was here to, ah..." Carrie fiddled with her hair.

"Check us out?"

Carrie nodded. "I suppose."

"Are you writing a feature on great eating places, alternate lifestyles or hip venues for the sexually curious?"

Carrie laughed. "No. Until yesterday, when I couldn't have lunch here, I wasn't writing anything related to this place at all. I was checking it out, as you say, to see what, to see if I'd want to come back, or..."

"Are you gay?" Kit asked bluntly, but quietly.

Carrie's face mutated through three expressions - startled, unsure, indignant - before she spoke. "Is that any of your business?"

Kit sighed. "Given the state of affairs - and by that I mean the whole dead guy thing coinciding with you being here, twice, and you being a reporter and us, as in you and me, technically still being on our premises - then yes, it's my business."

"And if I choose not to answer?" Carrie queried.

"You don't have to," Kit smiled. "But you may find it difficult to get worthwhile info from anyone who frequents this bar or has any affiliation with it."

Carrie looked incredulous. "Are you saying that if I'm not gay, no one will talk to me?"

"No," Kit laughed. "But this tendency of yours to get things arse-about is a worry. I meant that if you're not honest with me, with us, then some people may not want to talk to you coz - and this may be an alien concept to a journalist - they won't trust you. Quite frankly my dear we don't give a damn what you are, as long as you are it - whatever it is."

"Oh," said Carrie, shaking of the serious huff she didn't need any more. "I don't suppose there's any chance we could go inside and talk about all this, O'Malley?"

"No," Kit smiled. "Only family is allowed in there today. Police orders."

"But you're not family, are you?"

Kit shrugged "As a concept that word needs redefining," she said enigmatically, "but not for you by us today. We're still trying to get over the startling melodrama in which you encased the banal in order to support your dubious facts."

Carried screwed up her face. "What are you talking about?"

"Your beat it up, stretch it out, make it fact by claiming it is, quote the anonymous, then reduce everything to the lowest common denominator kind of reporting."

Carrie was about to protest, probably too much, when Kit raised her eyebrows and continued, "Unless of course, as they tend to do, your editor laid a heavy and brutish hand on your story; and it wasn't you who described Angie's as a place run by women for lesbians."

"Why? What's wrong with that?" Carrie demanded, putting on her huffy hat again.

"It's stupid and it's not accurate." Kit decided she was tired of standing, so sat down cross-legged on the grass before continuing, "And it's almost tautological."

Carrie sat down beside her. "You've lost me."

"If you must use a superfluous qualification to emphasise the nature of this establishment, then at least get it right. The Terpsichore is, in reality, a bar run by lesbians for women."

Carrie still looked lost.

"Carrie, Carrie," Kit shook her head. "To say that women run the bar for lesbians implies that only lesbians are allowed in. What's more by saying that, you'd already overkilled the point you were hammering, so much so that the follow-up 'men aren't usually allowed in' was in the really-fucking-obvious department - don't you think? Or don't you think?"

Carrie assumed a contrite visage. "Could we start our relationship again, O'Malley?"

Kit pretended to asses the request by examining Carrie's reasonably attractive face, noting that her pale green eyes featured specks of brown. "Will you be wanting to get back into Angie's in a completely non-professional capacity?"

"Yes," Carrie smiled.

"Then we'll have to start over," Kit shrugged, "because I promised my friends in there that I'd be nice to you if you turned out to be genuinely gay."

Carrie sighed deeply. "What if I'm not sure."

"Was that why you were here? To find out, because you think you might be?"

"Yes."

"That's okay then."

"It is?" Carrie looked bemused.

"Of course it is," Kit explained. "I told you this was a place for women - gay, straight, bi, transgender, even liberal-voting at a pinch; not to mention newbies who get sidetracked by a dead guy on the premises while they're trying to find their inner special-girl."

"Bet you wouldn't let her in," Carrie indicated the wife of god's-image-incarnate.

Kit's raspberry said it all. Well, almost. "Sadly, we might have to," she sneered. "She is the female of her species after all."

Carrie laughed, then decided it was time to get serious. "So O'Malley, will you talk to me about what happened here?"

"I don't know any more than you do, Carrie," Kit stated. "In fact, it's possible I know less than you. Will you tell me who your source is?"

"No. You know I can't tell you that."

"Aw, come on Carrie," Kit grinned. "I don't want to break my promise to be nice. Who's the source who told you Anders had a financial interest in Angie's?"

Carrie slapped her hand over her mouth; so Kit got to her feet with a sigh. "I don't want to do this, Miz McDermid," she said, "but I think it's my civic duty to trot over there and give that steroid-filled TV reporter the name of your 'witness at the scene when the body was discovered'. What do you think?"

"You wouldn't!" Carrie was horrified.

"Hey! If you can't write all the truth, then don't bloody exaggerate," Kit snapped. "Sorry, I forgot I was being nice." She grinned to make up for it.

"Are you for real, O'Malley?" Carried stood up and jabbed her fists defiantly into her hips. "I cannot reveal my source - end of story. Do your worst."

Damn, Kit thought, bluff called already. "Okay," she changed tack, "can you tell me whether you've managed to have the allegation verified?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? Good grief woman, how long have you been a reporter?" She held up her hand. "Bottom line here, Carrie, is that Gerry Anders had no financial interest in the Terpsichore, unless it was in his own now-dead imagination. So, if you're planning on reprinting that nonsense, you should check out its likelihood."

"O'Malley, my source is nothing if not reliable."

"No such thing, Carrie, but it's sweet that you believe in something."

"Okay, if you must know, Mrs Riley herself verified it this morning."

Kit snorted. "Oh yeah? And what did she say? Exactly."

"She came up to me, introduced herself and invited me to call on her to do an interview. She said, and I quote, 'we must talk about this financial interest of Gerry's and this sad business." Carrie's expression said: 'so there - exclamation mark'.

"Marjorie Riley approached you?" Kit said. "Had you met her before?"

"Yes she did, and no I hadn't," Carrie replied.

"But she knew who you were?"

"Yes," Carrie smiled, as if this was a good thing.

"Shit girl, she wants to know what you know. She didn't verify anything."

"That's an interesting take on a discussion you weren't party to." Carrie's lips were actually pursed.

"You are a dead woman." Kit threw the comment away.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh sweetie," Kit moaned. "Euphemisms aside Carrie, you described Queenie Riley as a well-known Melbourne businesswoman in the same article that you called her dead nephew a career-criminal, an ex-con, a murder suspect and a crime lord."

"So? What's wrong with making that connection. They are related."

Kit squinted at her. "You're not from Melbourne, are you?"

Carrie looked surprised. "No, Perth. Why?"

"Because," Kit rolled her eyes, "while Gerry Anders is, was indeed most of the things you alleged, he was also a thug. And not the top thug. His sweet Auntie Queenie is the crime lord, Carrie; and your bloody editor should've known not to let you connect those particular dots."

Carrie frowned.

"So if you do go to interview her, don't go alone," Kit stressed, "because, unlike like me, that nice old lady will not hesitate to rip your toenails out to find out who your source is."

"Well, it won't do her any good to know who it is," Carrie stated.

"Why not? Is your source already dead?"

"No," Carrie was appalled. "He's..." she stopped herself just in the nick of.

Damn, Kit thought; and then she flinched and looked to the left and right, as did Carrie, to see whose mobile was ringing.

"Mine," Kit said, pulling her phone out of her pocket to answer it. "Excuse me a sec."

"O'Malley?" It was the liquid-gold voice of the sexiest woman in the known-universe and Kit's heart and stomach exchanged places in a tingly somersaulty-type motion which put her momentarily to the left of centre, until her organs oozed back to their rightful spots. Carrie-only knew what her face looked like while all that was going on, but judging by her expression, Kit's was peculiar indeed.

You okay? Carrie mouthed.

Kit nodded, held up a finger and moved away to talk to Alex Cazenove with less of the human race listening in. All in all, a lag in response time of about 3.4 seconds.

"Alex, honey," Kit breathed.

"Hello darling."

Kit melted all over again, but was almost ready for it this time. She wondered when this internal waterfall thing was going to stop happening; then reneged on that thought because she was quite certain she never, ever, wanted it to stop.

"Please tell me you're home," Kit said.

"Wish I could, Kit, but I'm still in Sydney. What is going on down there? Your message was weird, and believe I saw the Terpsichore on a current hysteria show on TV this morning."

"Serious shit is going on down here, Alex. But what's with you? Since when do you even recognise a telly, let alone turn one on?"

"There are strange dead men at Angie's and you want to know why I turned the TV on?"

"There was only one dead man, Alex, and he's gone now." Kit filled her in on all the gory details, minus the actual gore, and then asked why it'd been so long between calls. Thirty-eight hours to be precise. Not that she was counting.

"Katherine O'Malley, are you asking where I was last night?"

Kit could imagine the amusement in those grey and beguiling eyes so, "Yes," she admitted, but sheepishly because she didn't want Alex to think she thought she had the right to ask.

"Let's see, I had drinks with the irritating clients in a bar at The Rocks from five to seven, then dined with some-"

"Alex," Kit tried to interrupt.

"...old friends at their house, and I drank..."

"Alex."

"...way too much, so I slept on their couch and had to dash to my meeting this morning via the hotel..."

"Alex, I don't need to know everything."

"Why not? Aren't you interested in what I've been up to?"

There was definitely a smile in that tease, but Kit still couldn't admit there was nothing in the world that she was more interested in than everything that Alex Cazenove did.

So why can't you come clean, O'Malley? she asked herself.

Because, herself replied, it would be pushing the boundaries, asking for trouble, expecting too much from something so new and so...new.

She changed the subject. "Well I had dinner with Enzo last night, after he generously shared one of his new clients with me."

"Is that the case of the royal Russian?" Alex asked.

"Yeah. And damn feral feds sat in their car outside the restaurant this time, eating Macca's I think. The silly bastards will probably file a report that implies Enzo and I are having an affair now. I swear Alex, it's time we did something about these guys. This can't be normal."

Alex sighed. "I've heard of cases where the Feds continued to spy, on and off, for months after the wedding."

"Bloody hell," Kit swore. "I'm beginning to think the federal immigration-espionage sector must be solely responsible for the increase in employment that I thought the government lied to us about on a regular basis. I mean, if Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Feds have only been on Enzo's case for the four months, then the Lurking and Accountable-to-no-one Department must have a gazillion spooks on staff just to watch all the bad-bad people who want to become legit Australians."

"O'Malley?"

"Yes Alex?"

"Are you a little bit stressed?"

Oh wow, Kit thought, she still hardly knows me, yet she can sense stuff.

"A little," she admitted, "but only because of...well, everything really."

Alex laughed. "I have an idea. What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Nothing," Kit said.

"Good. I can't get out of this damn follow-up trip to South Australia, but I could swing a late flight to Melbourne tomorrow, and a Sunday red-eye Adelaide. How about you meet me at the Tullamarine Hilton tomorrow evening."

Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes! Kit thought. "Oh yes," she said. "Tomorrow, that's Saturday, right? When, what time, what room?"

"Whoa, darling. As soon as I organise it, I'll let you know. Okay?"

"Good plan," Kit nodded.

Excellent plan, she cheered. And she's still calling me darling, which can only be good.

You are such an idiot, O'Malley, she added.